Tom Riddle's War
by Meester Lee
Summary: AU: What if Tom Riddle Senior hadn't been home when the future Lord Voldemort came to call in early July, 1943? Part of my Daria Ravenclaw story arc, but written to stand alone. Rated M for violence, death, foul language, and adult situations
1. Chapter 1

Tom Riddle's War

Chapter One: A Call to Arms.

DISCLAIMER: JK Rowling created Harry Potter and its characters; I didn't. I don't own the characters or their surroundings; JK Rowling and Warner Brothers do. I do not want, expect, or deserve financial compensation for my writing. I am writing for my own amusement and ego gratification.

Author's Note: This is an alternate universe Harry Potter story, set in the same universe as my Daria Ravenclaw (Harry Potter/Daria Morgendorffer) fan fiction series. As Daria Morgendorffer does not appear until very late in the story and decades after the main action, it is posted here with Harry Potter stories.

The idea behind this story is what might the consequences might have been if Tom Riddle, Senior hadn't been home at the Riddle Manor when the future Lord Voldemort came to call in July of 1943.

This story is rated M for violence, cruelty, adult situations, and coarse language. If you are looking for a cheerful Harry Potter fan fiction with good values and moral uplift, read no further. This is NOT that kind of story.

Tom Riddle's War*Tom Riddle's War*Tom Riddle's War

Tom Riddle sat with his father and his mother and listened to the wireless. The King was giving a speech, a speech which in so many words said that the British people would band together, stand up to tyranny, defeat the Nazis, then go on to create some post-war utopia where all would live in peace and plenty.

 _Bollocks_ , thought Tom. His world was going to Hell and the future belonged to the bloody socialists.

He thought it was a shame that that Hitler fellow had taken leave of his senses somewhere between 1937 and 1938. The man had done miracles for Germany. He'd restored order, gotten the Fritzs' economy running again, and put down the Bolshies. Britain could use a bit of that; Mosley had some good ideas, but he was a joke, not a leader.

It had been some years since his disastrous marriage to that tramp's daughter. He'd thought about marrying again, but none of the women he'd courted had shown any interest in marrying him. At least none of suitable class. Not that he was celibate. He did see a woman about thirty miles away. He supported her, he slept with her, but it wasn't anything like a real romance. He wasn't about to marry her; she was totally unsuitable.

The years passed since his wife left and the war clouds he and his parents had noticed forming over the horizon burst on September, 1939. Britain was now at war with Germany. At first, he thought he'd be immune: the Allies and the Nazis would negotiate a peace deal, and everyone would go home. He could care less about the Poles or the Czechs, and his few friends didn't care either. The German attack on Denmark and Norway, followed by the fall of France cured him of that notion. He cursed Winston bloody Churchill for not doing the right thing and calling off the war.

He began to worry that the war would affect him personally, and not simply with the rationing and multitudinous regulatory pettifoggery the bureaucrats down south could dream up. Conscription had already started. Thus far it only affected younger men. He was in his late thirties and didn't have to worry about it yet, but he could see it coming, particularly if this war was going to be as long as the last one. They'd conscripted men his age in what they used to call the Great War.

He did not want to go into uniform. The Riddles no longer had the power they'd once had to bind and to loose in the district, but they were still a presence to be reckoned with, at least within the Conservative Party. He decided to make an appointment to see Johnson, their local MP. He thought that his MP could give him some sort of exemption as an essential worker. To his dismay, the MP was totally unsympathetic.

"I'm not about to give you any sort of exemption," he said. "There's a bloody war on, and you're not too old to serve King and Country. Our country is in mortal peril, and it is time for every able-bodied man to step up and do his duty."

"Why should I?" Tom began, but Johnson cut him off.

"I suggest that you shut up and listen, Riddle," he said.

"I've got something to show you. I want you to take a good look." The MP got out of his chair walked around, then sat on his desk. He lifted the right leg of his trousers. To Tom's horror, the MP had a wooden leg instead of a real one. Tom realized that he'd put his foot in it; he knew that the MP limped, but hadn't thought about the why. "I got that at the Somme," said Johnson "and I have no use for bloody shirkers."

"The most I'm willing to do is get you into an officers' training program. I have enough pull with the War Department for that. Otherwise, I'll sit on my arse and let you get conscripted somewhere where the Boches can shoot your arse off."

Tom frowned at the MP. He tried to think of a riposte, something to make Johnson change his mind.

"Can I think about it?" he said.

Johnson decided to twist the knife with a show of magnanimity. "You can, but not too long."

Tom returned to the Manor in a foul mood.

"So how did it go with Johnson?" asked his father.

"He's not going to let me stay home and help with the estates. They gave me a choice: I can either stay here and wait to be conscripted or enlist in an officer's training program"

"Won't Johnson do anything, after all that money we've given to the party over the years?" said his father.

"No," said Tom. "He said that I'd have to go in, although he bent enough to say that he'd get me into an officer's training program."

"No way of changing his mind?" asked his father.

"No," replied Tom, "he was in the trenches during the last war. He doesn't like what he calls shirkers."

He thought about Johnson's alternatives later when he'd turned in for the night. The war was affecting the Riddle household; a couple of servants had left the family's employ to seek higher-paying war-work. _Ingrates_ , he thought. He wouldn't hire them back if they came by cap in hand looking for work after the war. Some hours into the early morning, he decided that he'd take up Johnson's offer to help him into an officer's training program. If he had to go into the Army, he had no intention of doing so as an enlisted conscript. He didn't hold with socialism or the classless state. He wanted to go in as a squire, not a peasant.

The Battle of Britain had ended and the threat of imminent German invasion had ended by the time he reported for induction into the British Army. He knew he could be sent someplace where there was active shooting, but he didn't think it likely. A new lieutenant crowding forty leading a troop of infantrymen against the Germans or Italians? Not likely. They'd probably use him to sort papers well behind the front. It wouldn't be a glamorous or heroic war, at least not for him, but he could live with it.

He soon learned that he hated the Army. He hated the training camps. He hated the calisthenics, the mud, the drills, the marches, and the sergeants' sarcasm. He hated the cleaning and the polishing; his family had had servants for that, at least they did before the last war. He particularly hated being ordered around by men half his age who didn't know what was what and who were more often than not his social inferiors. He hated that arsehole Johnson who'd handed him a Hobson's choice and take one or the other. He had little but contempt for his barracks-makes. Most of them were drunkards and spendthrifts who spent their time chasing skirts. They in turn hated him for being a cold fish and for being tight with his money.

He'd read a bit of Kipling while he was in public school. He'd thought that Kipling was an arse who gave too much credit to the little brown men ruled by the empire. He found that he remembered Kipling's poem "The Eathen," although through the weeks of training camp, he remembered it with loathing. Still, the day came when he could not only march in formation, but he'd learned a bit of basic military etiquette, and finally turned out with a right and proper kit. That was only the beginning; he then had to take officer's training. After more weeks of Hell, he survived the training course and received an officer's commission.

His trainers had words for him while he was taking officer's training. "You're new at this game, Riddle, even if you're nearly as old as I am," said the Captain. "Your men might be under your command, but there's no reason to piss on them. Listen to your sergeants and your senior non-commissioned men. Some of them have been in the service; they know things. Learn from them, even if they're under your command." The Captain was an old warhorse missing his left arm below his elbow back in harness again after years of peace.

As a newly-minted lieutenant, he'd hoped that he'd be posted somewhere in England, someplace where Winston would start accumulating the troops for a cross-channel invasion; not that he expected the invasion to take place. Instead, he was posted to the Eighth Army. He'd read the papers; he knew that the Eight Army was in Africa. As he expected, he was ordered to board ship. Crammed into a freighter that had been converted into a troop transport with hundreds of other men in khaki, he worried about lurking Nazi submarines and being torpedoed. He did go up on deck to take one last look at Britain; it was likely to be his last if the bloody U-boats were lurking as thickly as he thought they were.

Either they weren't as thick as he thought or they were busy elsewhere. His ship didn't get torpedoed. Neither did the other ones in his convoy. After some days he realized that his convoy was now in the Mediterranean. He'd learned that the Axis armies in Africa had capitulated, so he wouldn't be chasing Germans and Italians through the ruins of Carthage.

His ship made it to port and docked in Alexandria. Tom found that he hated Alexandria even more than he'd hated the training camp. The weather was beastly, there were flies all over, and the natives were constantly jabbering in incomprehensible Arabic. Despite his officer's status, he was not exempt from having to attend services and was bored out of his skull by the Charlies' sermons on the trials and tribulations of the Hebrews in the Old Testament. After several days of the Alexandrine heat, Tom wondered what took the Hebrews so long to decide to get up and leave Egypt.

After a few weeks of living in tents, he was ordered to again board ship. The hold was every bit as bad as it had been the previous time and threatened to get worse. It was now full summer in the Mediterranean and threatening to get even hotter. His ship let loose the mooring lines that held it to the pier and it put to sea. At first, he had no idea as to where it was going. He then realized that it wasn't sailing East, so he wouldn't be sailing through the Canal to India. Instead, he and his shipmates were sailing to someplace in the Mediterranean. He soon figured out just where he and his fellows were going: Monty and the Yanks were going to invade Sicily.

The invasion fleet arrived off Sicily on July 10th. Tom managed to get a place at the railing and watched as warships shelled the beaches, men from his ship and other ships climbed down rope ladders into landing boats, then watched the landing boats stream towards shore. He had a couple of scares when a couple of German and Italian aeroplanes slipped through the bunglers of the RAF and strafed and bombed neighboring ships. Despite the fear and the boredom, he knew he was going to get even closer to the war when he went ashore.

He didn't go ashore the first day; instead he remained aboard ship despite the sounds of battle drifting over the water from the beaches. Nor did he go ashore the second. The day after, his commander ordered him and his men to disembark. As Tom Riddle climbed down the netting to the landing craft waiting to take him ashore, he remembered a line from some boring long-ago church service. "And on the third day we got off the bloody ship and went ashore," he thought to himself, complimenting himself on his paraphrase.

The landing craft pushed away from the troop transport and began making its way towards the beach. The water was choppy and Tom could feel the up and down motion as the landing craft bobbed on the waves. Several of the soldiers in the craft got sick as it made its way to shore. Tom felt green around the gills himself: despite England being an island nation, he never liked the water and he'd hated the few times he'd been on boats in his younger years.

Despite the peril of looking over the sides, he couldn't resist looking out at the waves and beach as the landing craft grew closer and closer to shore. Several of his mates had already gotten sick and he worried that he'd join them soon. The boat finally grounded against the sand. The front ramp dropped, and the matelots running the craft shouted "You're now in bloody Sicily! Get off!"

Tom staggered off the boat with the other soldiers. His booted feet sank into water and he cursed. He could hear the sounds of artillery and small arms fire. He hoped that it wasn't too close.

"Move!" beach masters screamed. "Get your arses out of the way!" Tom walked further inland, his stomach still lurching despite the fact that he was now on solid ground. His gut betrayed his intention of remaining calm in the face of chaos: he bent over and was sick on Sicilian shore.


	2. To Settle Accounts

Tom Riddles War

Chapter Two: To Settle Accounts

DISCLAIMER: JK Rowling created Harry Potter and its characters; I didn't. I don't own the characters or their surroundings; JK Rowling and Warner Brothers do. I do not want, expect, or deserve financial compensation for my writing. I am writing for my own amusement and ego gratification.

Author's Note: This is an alternate universe Harry Potter story, set in the same universe as my Daria Ravenclaw (Harry Potter/Daria Morgendorffer) fan fiction series. As neither Daria Morgendorffer not any of the Daria characters make an appearance in this story, it is posted here with Harry Potter stories.

The idea behind this story is what might the consequences might have been if Tom Riddle, Senior hadn't been home at the Riddle Manor when the future Lord Voldemort came to call in July of 1943. This story is rated M for violence, cruelty, adult situations, and coarse language. If you are looking for a cheerful Harry Potter story with good values and moral uplift, read no further. This is NOT that kind of story.

Tom Riddle's War*Tom Riddle's War*Tom Riddle's War

Interlude: The Riddle Manor, Little Hangleton, UK July, 1943

Tom Riddle Junior passed through the threshold of Riddle Manor and learned to his consternation that unlike his Muggle grandparents, his father would be slower in settling his outstanding accounts

"WHERE IS HE!" shouted the young Voldemort. He'd come to the Riddle family manor to pay back the filthy Muggles who'd abandoned his mother. He'd already used a Crucio curse on the old man.

"He's, he's not here," said Mary. The young wizard was a hell-spawned copy of her son, every bit as handsome as he was but with the soul of the Devil.

"I CAN BLOODY WELL TELL THAT!" shouted young Voldemort.

His grandfather had recovered enough from Tom's Crucio curse to attempt to answer his question. "He's-in the Army," he said.

Voldemort rewarded the old man with another _Crucio_ curse. The filthy old Muggle had made him look foolish. He _hated_ that.

"SO WHERE IS HE IN THE BLOODY ARMY!" shouted the young wizard.

"He's where they bloody sent him," said the old man.

"AND WHERE IS THAT?" shouted Tom.

"I don't know," said the old man. "He didn't tell us. They probably didn't tell him either."

Young Voldemort rewarded his grandfather with another Crucio curse. Despite his terror and the excruciating pain coursing through his body, a thought came to the old man. _For all his power and cruelty, this boy was a bloody idiot_.

The young Voldemort released him from his spell. "All right," gasped the elder Riddle, "All right." The young Voldemort let him collapse on to the sofa.

He stared at the Devil's spawn in hatred. "I can't tell you what I don't know," he said. He now realized that neither he nor Mary were getting out of this alive. Maybe he could goad the young devil into getting it over with quickly. "And if you were any sort of Riddle, you'd know that."

The young wizard hadn't thought that anything these filthy Muggles could say would make any difference to him. To his anger and embarrassment, he found he was wrong. The old man's gibe got to him.

"AVADA KEDAVRA!" he shouted.

Still filled with fury at the old man's remark, he turned to the woman. "AVADA KEDAVRA!" he said again.

The dead bodies of his grandfather and grandmother lay on the floor. He looked at their bodies in hatred and loathing, then regretted his loss of control. They'd no longer be able to tell him anything; he'd have to search for clues on his own. He walked over to side table set against the wall in the mansion's parlor. Tom started searching for clues there. There were photographs of the Muggle who sired him, including a recent one that must have been put there during the last year or two. He picked it up and glared at it.

It did him no good. It was a Muggle photograph of his father wearing a British Army uniform. Like most Muggle photographs, it was a product of light and shadow and their reactions on silver nitrate-coated paper. Unlike wizarding photographs, there was not a bit of Tom Riddle's soul in it, but that didn't stop young Voldemort from staring at it in hatred. "I'll track you down yet," he said.


	3. To Resist The Invaders

Tom Riddles War Part Three

DISCLAIMER: JK Rowling created Harry Potter and its characters; I didn't. I don't own the characters or their surroundings; JK Rowling and Warner Brothers do. I do not want, expect, or deserve financial compensation for my writing. I am writing for my own amusement and ego gratification.

Author's Note: This is an alternate universe Harry Potter story, set in the same universe as my Daria Ravenclaw (Harry Potter/Daria Morgendorffer) fan fiction series. As neither Daria Morgendorffer not any of the Daria characters make an appearance in this story, it is posted here with Harry Potter stories.

This story is rated M for violence, cruelty, adult situations, and coarse language. If you are looking for a cheerful Harry Potter fan fiction with good values and moral uplift, read no further. This is NOT that kind of story.

The idea behind this story is what might the consequences might have been if Tom Riddle, Senior hadn't been home at the Riddle Manor when the future Lord Voldemort came to call in July of 1943.

Tom Riddles War*Tom Riddles War*Tom Riddles War

-(((O-O)))-

Sicily, July, 1943

Resistance on the landing grounds may have ceased by the time Tom Riddle walked ashore, but that hardly meant that enemy opposition had stopped. Italian soldiers may have started surrendering in waves near the beaches, but some fought on inland. For their part, the Germans on the island showed no signs of surrendering. Even now, either the Jerries or the Italians were able to lob the odd artillery shell onto the beaches. In spite of that, Riddle found his unit's headquarters and reported in to Major Capers. He and his men were then set to cleaning up his sector of the beach.

-(((O-O)))-

Inland Sicily

Most of the military histories written after the Sicilian campaign ended stated that most of the Axis resistance to the Allied landings was by German, not Italian troops. Most of the Italian troops either fled the field of battle or surrendered rather than give battle to the Allied invaders. This may have been true for many of the poorly-equipped, ill-trained, and ill-led men of the Royal Italian Army's coastal defense units, but it wasn't true for all of them. It particularly wasn't true for Colonel Marco Battaglia.

Colonel Marco Batttaglia had been posted to his coastal defense division shortly after he got out of the hospital. He'd been in the Italian Army for over a decade before he'd arrived in Sicily and unlike many of his peers, he'd been a combat veteran, gaining experience as young artillerist in Libya, then in Spain during the Spanish Civil War, then with the Italian expeditionary force in Russia. He'd fought there for a few months until he was wounded. His wound had been severe enough that he'd been forced to return to the fatherland.

He'd learned a lot in Russia. Most Russian units he'd encountered had been badly-led, but he could see that some of them were getting better. He'd learned more about the need for artillery to co-ordinate their efforts with armor and with tankers, and the overwhelming need for good communications between artillerists and their spotters. He'd also been impressed with the Russians' skill at camouflage, so much so that he'd "borrowed" a couple of prisoners and had them teach his men how to use some of their skills. He'd thought to use his newly-learned skills against the Russians, but he was wounded and sent home before he could do so..

He'd thought to return to action, preferably in North Africa, but he had enemies in the Comando Supremo, the Italian high command. He'd been posted to a coastal artillery unit in Sicily. He thought his enemies in Comando Supremo had succeeded in putting him permanently on the shelf, then the Allies drove his countrymen first out of Libya, then out of Tunisia, and now were about to invade Sicily. The Fatherland was now faced foreign invasion; he resolved to resist with the skills he'd acquired.

His unit came under attack both from Allied warships offshore and Allied airplanes from overhead. He and the men he'd attempted to train up were buffeted, battered, and occasionally wounded or torn apart by incoming bombs and shells. By the end of the naval bombardment, Colonel Battaglia crawled over his unit's position and saw the enemy had destroyed most of his encasements and artillery. Using his binoculars, he watched in consternation as the enemy's distant troop ships offloaded soldiers into landing craft, then watched those landing craft begin to sail towards shore. He tried to count them: there were so many of them. To his despair, he realized that there were too many of them for him and his men to destroy by themselves, even if their positions had not been torn apart by enemy fire.

A battered and frightened private who claimed that he was a runner told him that the units to either side of him had panicked and fled their positions, Battaglia had no idea as to whether the man was indeed a runner or merely a deserter making up a story on the spot to keep himself from summary execution. His outlying men soon gathered in other survivors of the Allied shelling and he learned to his despair that Allied naval fire had caused massive panic and desertion as men from other units fled the coast.

As the landing craft drew closer, Colonel Battaglia made a decision. If he and the loyal men under his command, they'd be quickly overwhelmed by enemy soldiers either mounting frontal or flanking attacks. If the so-called runner's reports were to be believed, the neighboring units had broken and run even before the enemy reached the beach.

Inside his encasement, he decided that he'd fight on. He and his men wouldn't hold the beaches for long, but he could fight from Sicily's interior. But for now he still had intact artillery, even if he was low on shells. Despite the protection he and his predecessors had built for his guns, good men as well as poor ones had died during the enemy bombardment, including the gun's commander. No matter, he decided, he was a trained artilleryman. He drafted a couple of men to help him work the guns and fired several shots at the incoming landing craft before he gave the order to wreck their weapon and retreat inland.

Colonel Battaglia was able to make contact with superiors in the early morning. It was as he thought. The first day had been a bitter rout for the army. The storm of steel that came towards his and other ill-trained, ill-equipped coastal artillery units were too much for them. Many broke and ran.

Privately, he was dissatisfied with his own performance. He'd retreated rather than attempt to hold onto his positions until the last. He told himself that he hadn't run, he'd merely retreated in the face of overwhelming odds.

The odds would be better inland, he decided. He'd fight on.


	4. A Dangerous World

Tom Riddles War Part Four

DISCLAIMER: JK Rowling created Harry Potter and its characters; I didn't. I don't own the characters or their surroundings; JK Rowling and Warner Brothers do. I do not want, expect, or deserve financial compensation for my writing. I am writing for my own amusement and ego gratification.

Author's Note: This is an alternate universe Harry Potter story, set in the same universe as my Daria Ravenclaw (Harry Potter/Daria Morgendorffer) fan fiction series. As neither Daria Morgendorffer nor any of the Daria characters make an appearance in this story, it is posted here with Harry Potter stories.

The idea behind this story is what might the consequences might have been if Tom Riddle, Senior hadn't been home at the Riddle Manor when the future Lord Voldemort came to call in July of 1943.

This story is rated M for violence, cruelty, adult situations, and coarse language. If you are looking for a cheerful Harry Potter fan fiction with good values and moral uplift, read no further. This is NOT that kind of story.

Tom Riddle's War*Tom Riddle's War*Tom Riddle's War

Sicily

Tom Riddle had seen death before he went to war. He'd seen a farm laborer's dead body when the fool had fallen between tractor and plow and sliced to death, but it hadn't affected him that much. It had been a preventable death, one caused by the drunkard's carelessness. If the fool had been sober and careful, he'd probably still be alive.

Death in Sicily was another matter altogether. It could find you even if you were careful, well-trained, and did everything his trainers had taught him and more. He'd seen the torn and mutilated bodies of hale and hardy men torn apart and realized that he could be killed no matter how careful he'd been.

Syracuse had already fallen to the Royal Army, although the powers-that-be hadn't declared the city to be secure. Tom had found himself walking down a battered street in the company of a couple of armed enlisted men and a shabby English-speaking Italian who'd offered his services as an interpreter—for a price. The natives either stared at him, turned away, or tried to ignore him. An old woman wearing a dark shawl saw him, made the sign of the evil eye, then gabbled something. Tom reached for his service revolver, but the old woman merely made another sign of the evil eye, then turned away. Riddle hadn't the slightest idea as to what she'd said.

"What nonsense is that old woman gabbling?" he asked.

"She said that there a _stregone_ , what you say a sorcerer, after you," said the interpreter. "He wants to kill you."

Tom Riddle thought about the interpreter's words and scoffed. The only witch or wizard he'd seen was the tramp's daughter. Which reminded him; he ought to do something about removing the lot of them from their shack and then razing it when he returned from the war.

-(((O-O)))—

Britain

Tom Riddle Junior sat and brooded. His father had somehow escaped retribution. He finally learned his Muggle father's whereabouts using a locating spell. He had somehow found his way to Sicily.

So his father was in Sicily with the British Army. How was he going to get there?

Tom decided that the best way was to cross over to the Continent. He'd had his apparition license for a year now, but while he was confident enough to apparate within a two hundred mile-radius, he was less certain about longer distances. He set to thinking about how he'd kill the Muggle. He'd go to France, taking care to avoid those parts of Europe under the influence of Grindelwald. Then he'd floo over to Marseille, apparate to Nice, then take the Italian floo network down to Calabria. Then he'd apparate over to Sicily and start looking for the Muggle.

He set to making preparations, first making himself a pack. He took only Muggle clothing, although he did pack some outdoor clothing he'd either bought for a song or imperio'd from Muggle black marketeers. Whatever his family's origins, Tom was a city boy and had only begun to develop outdoor skills during his Hogwarts years.

After making inquiries, Tom discovered that there were ways to cross the English Channel even with the English and German Muggles at war with each other. Tom found a smuggler who could move people across—for a price. The middleman told Tom where and when to be there. Tom boarded the boat at a fishing village on the Channel well before dawn. He wasn't the only one who had business on the Continent. There were two other wizards and a plain-looking witch in the small boat.

The helmsman used the Muggle motor to push away from the dock and then go out to sea. The weather was supposed to be foggy.

A couple of miles out to sea and in the midst of a fog bank, the helmsman cut the boat's motor. From here on to the French coast, he'd use magic to avoid being detected by patrolling Luftwaffe or Kriegsmarine units. He looked at the people he was going to take across the water. Three of his passengers looked like they knew what they were doing. The fourth, a boy who must have recently graduated from Hogwarts, almost certainly didn't.

One of the smugglers tried to befriend him, an older man with a crooked nose and bad teeth.

"Me name's Tom," said the smuggler. "They call me Tom-the-hat."

"My name is Tom Marvolo Riddle," said the young wizard.

"And what ye be doing on a small boat bound for France?" asked Tom-the-Hat.

"Business," Tom Riddle said shortly.

Tom-the-Hat chuckled. "Aren't we all?" he said.

"Lad, let me give you a piece of advice," he said.

Tom said nothing.

"The Muggles. Be careful. They aren't all stupid," said the smuggler. "They're playing dangerous games over there and they've got things that can kill even us."

Again, the boy said nothing.

Tom-the-Hat shrugged to himself. The boy was a cold fish, and in his opinion, an arrogant little shit. He'd offered good advice and the stupid boy wouldn't take it. He didn't think the boy wouldn't last very long once he got on shore.

In due course, despite fog, choppy water, and a patrolling E-boat, the smuggler's boat touched French sand. The wizarding passengers got out of the small boat and looked for places where they could apparate away.

Tom-the-Hat tried to advise the lad one last time. "Mind where you put your feet," he said. "The German Muggles have mined some of these beaches and you don't want to step on a land-mine, no you don't." He chuckled. Tom Riddle had no idea as to what he was talking about and ignored him.

From the beach, Tom apparated to Chartres. It was still dark and he thought that he could use the early hours to get his bearings. He started walking around the city to clear his head.

He quickly learned that walking around on the streets after Curfew was a serious mistake. The second time he was seen, the German soldier who'd spotted him not only yelled something, but then shot a rifle. Tom felt something whip through his coat, then realized that the cursed Muggle had come within inches of killing him. His German pursuer had no further luck in catching him; once he'd reached the shadows, he was able to apparate away.

He snorted contemptuously. Stupid, bungling idiots. They hadn't a chance in Hades of catching him.

This might make for an interesting sport. He saw another German sentry and decided to stun the stupid Muggle for the joy of it. Using magic, Tom crept upon the grey-uniformed soldier, drew his wand and prepared to stun him. He never saw the wizard who stunned him with an Immobulus curse.

He came to sometime later and found himself in a metal chair. There was a bright Muggle-style desk lamp shining in his face

"Bonjour, M. Riddle," said one of his captors. He sounded amused. Tom's eyes focused and he saw a tall, dark-complexioned Frenchman wearing a Muggle-looking brown uniform. He wasn't alone; there were three other men in the room besides Tom and his interrogator. He was handcuffed, which didn't bother Tom so much, but he saw to his dismay that his captors had taken his wand. Not only that, but a couple of them were holding wands and had theirs pointed at him. They were not Muggles. Who were they?

Author's notes:

I may be a year off about Tom Riddle's age. For the purposes of this fan fiction, Tom Riddle graduated from Hogwarts at the end of June, 1943.

JK Rowling said that witches and wizards couldn't apparate across the ocean. I am uncertain as to whether they could apparate between England and France and decided that for the purposes of this fiction, they couldn't. Herself and the script writers for the Fantastic Beasts movies may yet prove me wrong.

For those readers who are unaware, Tom Riddle's War occurs during World War II. The whole of France is occupied by the Germans, and German soldiers patrol the streets and countryside and the German navy (The Kriegsmarine) patrols the shoreline, often using E-boats (motor torpedo boats).

Much of the pre-war French government remains in place. The French civil authorities collaborated with the German authorities far more than they like to admit. One of the organizations created by the puppet French state in 1943 was the Milice, a civilian paramilitary organization tasked with tracking down and capturing Resistance fighters, Jews, foreign nationals, and French nationals opposed to the Nazis and the puppet French state. While I am unsure as to whether they had offices in Chartres in 1943, I placed one there for this fiction.


	5. Not So Clever

Tom Riddles War Part Five Not So Clever

DISCLAIMER: JK Rowling created Harry Potter and its characters; I didn't. I don't own the characters or their surroundings; JK Rowling and Warner Brothers do. I do not want, expect, or deserve financial compensation for my writing. I am writing for my own amusement and ego gratification.

Author's Note: This is an alternate universe Harry Potter story, set in the same universe as my Daria Ravenclaw (Harry Potter/Daria Morgendorffer) fan fiction series. As neither Daria Morgendorffer nor any of the Daria characters make an appearance in this story, it is posted here with Harry Potter stories.

The idea behind this story is what might the consequences might have been if Tom Riddle Senior hadn't been home at the Riddle Manor when the future Lord Voldemort came to call in July of 1943.

This story is rated M for violence, cruelty, adult situations, and coarse language. If you are looking for a cheerful Harry Potter fan fiction with good values and moral uplift, read no further. This is NOT that kind of story.

Tom Riddle's War*Tom Riddle's War*Tom Riddle's War

He came to sometime later and found himself in a metal chair. There was a bright Muggle-style desk lamp shining in his face

"Bonjour, M. Riddle," said one of his captors. He sounded amused. Tom's eyes focused and he saw a tall, dark-complexioned Frenchman wearing a Muggle-looking brown uniform. He wasn't alone; there were three other men in the room besides Tom and his interrogator. He was handcuffed, which didn't bother Tom so much, but he saw to his dismay that his captors had taken his wand. Not only that, but a couple of them were holding wands and had theirs pointed at him. They were not Muggles. Who were they?

"We are with the French ministry of magie," said the older man. "The equivalent of the Ministry of Magic."

"So what are your doing here, Monsieur Riddle? Perhaps playing tourist, yes?"

"Perhaps he didn't notice that there was a war on," said the other French Auror.

"I think he was a smuggler," said the first French Auror.

"So, Anglais, what did you think to smuggle into France?" asked second Auror.

"He didn't bring very much with him," the second wizard said with sardonic amusement. "Some pounds, a few galleons, some sickles."

"Not even whiskey," said the second Auror, shaking his head at what he thought was the young wizard's foolishness.

Tom kept his blank face, but underneath he felt consternation and rising fear. They must have checked his wallet, coin pouch, and luggage.

"This boy is an idiot," said the first Auror to the second. "I would have thought he'd have known that the Muggles are fighting a war with each other and that the prices for everything have gone up since the Allemands started the war in 1939."

Tom Riddle realized that he was in a dangerous situation, one he couldn't talk or trick his way out of. What would happen if they examined his wand? Je couldn't get it back disarmed as he was. There were not only more of them than there were of him, but they'd already shown that they were capable duelists with years of experience.

"Nothing, you brought nothing?" the second Auror said to Tom. He turned to the first Auror: "He brought nothing. He comes to France to trade and he brought nothing! Quel betise! How stupid!"

"You weren't thinking of playing partisan games, were you?" asked the second Auror. "If so, I advise against it. Our Ministry has decided to stay out of the Muggle war and the fate or Muggle resistants can be quite grim."

"Do not try to apparate away, M. Riddle," said the first Auror. "These cells are charmed with splinching hexes. You would find it very uncomfortable."

"So what is going to happen to me?" said Tom, trying to project an air of nonchalance.

"We will put you in a cell and keep you there," said the first Auror. "In due course, we might be able to work with the English ministry to return you home—if you behave."

"At least if he knows enough not to be a garcon mechant," said the second French Auror to the first. The two Aurors laughed.

It had to be tried. "Could I have my wand back?" said Tom, trying to play the role of a young naif who'd done something foolish.

"No," said the second Auror. We will keep your wand. You may get it back, but not until the Muggle war is over," said the second Auror. Tom didn't dare dispute them. Suppose they used a Priori Incantatum spell on his wand and saw the Unforgivable Curses he'd used? The French ministry, unlike its British equivalent, not only handed out death sentences for unforgivable curses, but during times of civil unrest authorized Aurors to perform summary executions.

"For now, we have wasted enough time with you," said the first Auror. "Jean, take this idiot to the cells." Several of the guards pointed their wands at him. A couple of them smiled grimly, daring him to try something. Furious, helpless, Tom let them take him away from his wand. He resolved to have his revenge one day, but he wouldn't be able to have it anytime soon.

The French Aurors took him to a cell and pushed him inside. He heard the door close with a finality he had not had to deal with since long before he'd entered Hogwarts. He thought that he might be able to apparate away, but even with his inexperience and his lack of skill with wandless magic, Tom knew that it would be too dangerous to do so. For now, he'd have to wait.

Tom thought that he'd have this block of cells to himself, or that perhaps he'd share it with criminals who'd run afoul of the French ministry of magic. That was not the case. Most of the other cells were occupied by Muggles. The French magicals must have infiltrated the ranks of the Milice, then appropriated part of the Milice's facilties for their own use. The rest of this prison was a Muggle facility, with Muggle guards and Muggle prisoners. Since the French and German Muggle guards and interrogators never bothered with his cell, he deduced that it must be protected with charms that prevented the Muggles from noticing it.

Still furious at his captors, he knew that he was better off than his French neighbors. Every so often, some guards would come to their cells, open their cell doors, then begin interrogating them, punctuated their questioning with blows or dragging them away for torture. Once her heard a pistol shot and sensed that someone had died. The knowledge didn't make him grateful; he still seethed about the indignity of having been arrested.

He remained there for three weeks. He sat and brooded, planning what he'd do once he was free and back in Britain. They fed him twice a day. They also retrieved his slop bucket. Unlike Muggle jailers, they faced him with wands drawn.

Author's notes

For those readers who are unaware, Tom Riddle's War occurs during World War II. In 1943, the whole of France is occupied by the Germans, and German soldiers patrol the streets and countryside and the German navy (The Kriegsmarine) patrols the shoreline, often using E-boats (motor torpedo boats).

Despite the occupation, much of the pre-war French government remains in place. The French civil authorities collaborated with the German authorities far more than they like to admit to nearly 70 years later. One of the organizations created by the puppet French state in 1943 was the Milice, a civilian paramilitary organization tasked with tracking down and capturing Resistance fighters, Jews, foreign nationals, and French nationals opposed to the Nazis and the puppet French state. While I am unsure as to whether they had offices in Chartres in 1943, I placed one there for this fiction.

Vocabulary. It's been decades since I studied French, but here goes:

Allemands = The Germans

Anglais = English (language) or Englishman.

garcon mechant (sorry, the alt keys are confusing) = bad boy


	6. To Do Battle

Tom Riddle's War: To Do Battle

DISCLAIMER: JK Rowling created _Harry Potter_ and its characters; I didn't. I don't own the characters or their surroundings; JK Rowling and Warner Brothers do. I do not want, expect, or deserve financial compensation for my writing. I am writing for my own amusement and ego gratification.

Still, I retain the rights to Colonel Marco Battaglia, Hereward Granger, and Horatio Dursley.

Author's Note: This is an alternate universe Harry Potter story, set in the same universe as my _Daria Ravenclaw_ (Harry Potter/Daria Morgendorffer) fan fiction series and years before most of the canon _Daria_ characters were even born.

What might the consequences might have been if Tom Riddle, Senior hadn't been home at the Riddle Manor when the future Lord Voldemort came to call in July of 1943?

This story is rated M for violence, cruelty, adult situations, and coarse language. This is a war story. If you are looking for a cheerful Harry Potter fan fiction with good values and moral uplift, read no further. This is NOT that kind of tale.

Tom Riddle's War*Tom Riddle's War*Tom Riddle's War

Sicily

Mid July, 1943

Driven away from the coast by the sheer weight of the Allied invasion force, Colonel Battaglia attempted to rally the men who'd been under his command. He had limited success. While he and a couple of officers were able to gather in some of them, most had not only fled away from the coast, but away from the war. Colonel Battaglia was disappointed, but not entirely surprised. He hadn't been at his post long enough to train them into being proper soldiers; most of them remained ill-trained, frightened men lacking a fighting spirit and facing more than they were capable of meeting.

Those he could find he ordered to move further inland, away from the naval bombardment. He ordered them to stay hidden during the day. He'd address them after dark.

The odds had drastically changed since the enemy began their attack. From the senior officer of a coastal unit, he'd become the leader of little more than a company—something like the partisans who'd fought on behind the front lines in Russia. Colonel Battaglia never thought of himself as being anything like a partisan; but if he had to, he'd fight like one. He came to a decision as to what sort of men he'd lead if it came to that.

The sun set and his remaining officers and under officers gathered those of his men who hadn't fled into the hills. He set to address his men.

"Soldiers!" he said.

"Our Fatherland is under attack from the British and their American allies. We are now facing a well-armed enemy determined to turn our Italian homeland into a plantation run for the benefit of London bankers and Wall Street."

"The Italian Army and heroes like you are the only ones standing in their way!"

"I intend to fight. I intend to fight, and I want brave men to join me. I want real men, real soldiers, men can face danger and endure hardship. I want no cowards or weaklings."

"If you are such men, I invite you to join me!"

"I know that many of your former comrades fled from battle. They have broken faith and I am as disappointed with them as you are."

"I ask you now to make a decision. I ask you to either be soldiers who will stay and fight, or cowards who will run away."

"Those who wish to fight the invaders who seek to rape our Fatherland can stay here with me. Those who wish to creep away may do so—but only after they leave their rifles and ammunition."

"The time to decide is now! Those who wish to join me, step forward!"

"Viva Italia! Viva Il Duce!

The response was only half-hearted. A few were already slinking away.

To the colonel's bitter disappointment, most of the men who'd remained shamefacedly took off their ammunition pouches, stacked their rifles, then walked away. By the time the last ones crept off, he had little over a score of men left.

He would fight on. He would not surrender. Neither would the men who remained with him He and the sergeant and the surviving lieutenants began going through the ammunition. They were woefully few, but they'd be armed.

-(((O-O)))—

The fighting did not cease for the Eighth Army once they'd taken Syracuse. Monty and the Yanks wanted the whole of Sicily, not just a piece of it. In fact, they'd taken Augusta the day after he landed and the front moved northward. Rumor had it that Monty's next objective was Catania. Riddle had had no idea as to where Catania was; he had had to look at a map to find out.

Now that the Allies had gained a foothold on the island and pushed inland, they began to offload the tools that would allow them to pursue war inland and Tom Riddle and his company were set to work to do what they'd been trained for: a motorized supply company that ran munitions and supplies to the front. Tom not only supervised the enlisted men loading supplies brought on shore, but more often than not he also rode with the convoys delivering those supplies to the front. It was hard, time-consuming, demanding work that kept him busy around the clock, despite the fact that he wasn't one of the men actually loading the lorries.

The trips to the front were even more tiring than the loading. The trucks had to navigate ruined streets and battered roadways, occasionally dodging heaps of rubble and deep shell holes and push northwards over unfamiliar roadways. Despite the fact that most of Riddle's work was behind the front lines, there was always risk: traffic hazards, conflicts with military units moving to the front, other convoys, ruined Allied and enemy armour blocking the roads, and the possibility that his own convoy's lorries might break down or merely suffer tyre punctures. Despite the hazards of traffic, bad roads, and the possibilities of breakdowns, Tom Riddle told himself that he was relatively safe until he came within a few miles of the front.

He was forced to revise his assumptions six days later after several late-model Italian fighter planes broke through Allied air cover and strafed one of his unit's convoys, mortally wounding Captain Lamb. Despite Major Caper's dislike for him, Tom was promoted and not only was assigned more responsibilities, but given two new underlings: an eager young sub-lieutenant named Hereward Granger and an underofficer named Horatio Dursley. Riddle didn't like either one of them: Granger was an eager young Berk, one of those people adored by the Labour Party, an ambitious young man working his way up the ladder from the working class. Dursley, on the other hand, came from a middle-class family in the Midlands and tried to do as little as he thought he could get away with.

By now, Tom had been an officer long enough to gain an appreciation for underofficers, at least now that he had a commission and out from underneath them. The good ones usually knew what was what and how things ought to be done. Dursley was not a good one. Riddle would happily have traded off Dursley for a one-eyed, one-armed long-term sergeant who'd been in the Army long enough to know who knew who and how to do things right.

-(((O-O)))-

Colonel Battaglia made contact with the rest of the Italian Army a couple of nights after the Allies stormed the beaches. To his sorrow, he learned other coastal units had folded almost as quickly as the ones next to his old position, although a couple did fight well. He also learned that there were still some Italian Army units that had not only survived, but were still willing to fight.

Colonel Battaglia and the remnants of his command were now too small to be classified as a unit on their own. Instead, they were lumped into something the Tedeschi called a Kampfgruppe: officers and enlisted men originally from different units now thrown together to fight the enemy.

Most of Battaglia's kampfgruppe were Italians, but there was a sprinkling a Germans. Battaglia spoke German, but many of his men did not. For that matter, not many of the Germans spoke Italian. The Germans acted like they looked down upon their Italian compatriots, which made Battaglia bristle, and he was far from alone.

Colonel Battaglia and the other members of his kampfgruppe soon learned that they had a hard fight ahead. The British and Canadians facing him were much better led and often better-equipped than the Bolsheviks had been. They were often experienced, having learned their lessons in North Africa. Their tanks were worse than the ones they faced; the few captured French Renault tanks and the Italian armor were inferior to the American-built Shermans used by the British and Canadians. They possessed some artillery, but not enough tubes and not nearly enough shells to keep the Allies from advancing on them.

The skies were filled with bitter portents. The Luftwaffe had had air superiority when he and his men were in the East, now the Allies controlled the skies. There was always, always the risk of being bombed or strafed by Allied planes operating from Malta or Africa—risks that all too often came true.

Still, they fought. They'd fought on the beaches, they fought in the fields, the fought on in the hills. They fought before Gerbini, around Gerbini, then retreated northwards towards Mount Aetna as the enemy slowly drove them back. They didn't surrender. Sicily was not Africa, with mechanized units fighting swiftly-moving battles through desert sand; Sicily was rough, broken terrain and Battaglia and his fellows did what they could to make the Allies bleed for it. He and his men fought through ruined farms, shot at the enemy from ditches, potholes, and under the branches of ruined vineyards and olive groves. In turn, the Allies did what they could to bleed, wound, and kill him and his men.

Tom Riddle's War*Tom Riddle's War*Tom Riddle's War

Author's notes

Vocabulary

Il Duce—The leader. The popular nickname for Benito Mussolini, dictator of Italy, until his overthrow in 1943

Tedeschi –An Italian word for Germans used during World War II.

Luftwaffe—German air force, in this case the air force of the Nazi Third Reich.


	7. A Woman Named Merope

_Tom Riddle's War_ : The Women We Left Behind

DISCLAIMER: JK Rowling created Harry Potter and its characters; I didn't. I don't own the characters or their surroundings; JK Rowling and Warner Brothers do. I do not want, expect, or deserve financial compensation for my writing. I am writing for my own amusement and ego gratification.

ALSO, the ethnic and racial insults are my borrowed character's, NOT mine. Tom Riddle Senior is NOT a nice person.

Caveat: while I claim no right to canon Harry Potter characters, I retain the rights to Colonel Marco Battaglia, Hereward Granger, and Horatio Dursley.

 _Tom Riddle's War_ is an alternate universe Harry Potter story, set in the same universe as my _Daria Ravenclaw_ (Harry Potter/Daria Morgendorffer) crossover fan fiction series and years before most of the canon _Daria_ characters were even born. The premise of the story is that things would have turned out differently in the Harry Potter story had Tom Riddle, Senior been away from Riddle Manor when the future Lord Voldemort came to call in July of 1943.

This story is rated M for violence, cruelty, adult situations, and coarse language. This is a war story. If you are looking for a cheerful Harry Potter fan fiction with good values and moral uplift, read no further. This is NOT that kind of tale.

Tom Riddle's War*Tom Riddle's War*Tom Riddle's War

By now, the Allies had a strong grip on the southern part of Sicily and were making inroads north and west. Tom Riddle and his men loaded supplies into lorries, then drove them to just behind the front lines where soldiers would take them up to the units that had call for them. Occasionally, they drove things back. The wounded usually travelled back by ambulance, but occasionally, Tom and his men loaded prisoners of war and their guards and drove them to the cages set up to receive them. Tom thought very little of the men who were loaded onto his lorries. To him they were all gutless, cowardly guineas who lacked the guts to stand and fight like men. To him, they not only deserved their fate, but they deserved worse.

Tom hated certain cargoes more than others. He particularly hated driving ammunition to the front. He'd noticed that the odds of enemy air attack had considerably lessened as the days went on, but he felt exposed to enemy cannon fire when he and his men delivered shells and other explosives to the demanding artillerists. Bad things could happen if they had a prang, or worse, if they were hit by enemy artillery. He wanted to live, and he wanted nothing better than to depart this wretched, impoverished war-torn island and return home.

Once in a while, he and the other officers found that there were times where they weren't overwhelmed with loading, convoy duty, or paperwork. Major Capers retired to his tent; Tom heard that he spent his time reading or writing to his wife. Tom preferred to stay on the base and drink. Other officers were rumored to seek out the fleshpots of Augusta, but those had no appeal to him. It wasn't that he wished to remain faithful to the woman he'd kept in Britain; it was that he had little desire to experience the side effects of sampling strange flesh. Besides, the Yanks surely sent the price of such women beyond any price he was willing to pay.

Granger had gotten permission to go off-base one evening, then did so. He came back a couple of hours later in a chipper mood, faintly smelling of vino. Tom had his suspicion as to what else Granger had been doing: sampling the tarts. He grinned nastily to himself. _Well, he'll find out what happens_. Four nights later he heard Granger screaming in the crapper and smiled. _That's what comes for fraternizing with the local strumpets,_ he thought _. The little shit got what was coming to him._

Tom soon learned another unpleasant fact about Sicily. As much as he looked down on the locals, and as much as he thought that his men should remain aloof from the natives, he discovered that the men under his command did not share his attitude. The first application for permission to marry a local girl landed on his desk a day after he'd taken over the duty from the deceased Captain Lamb. He made it a point to call in Corporal Cummings and give him a bollicking. Afterwards, despite the fact that accepting or rejecting the application was either Major Caper's or the Colonel's prerogative, not his, he attached his own opinion to Cumming's request. "I recommend that this application be denied," he wrote. "These mixed marriages never work."

Despite Tom's disinterest in interacting with the locals, he found that duty compelled him to do so. He met up with the shabby English-speaking interpreter that he'd met over a week ago. He wasn't going to Augusta to fraternize; he was going there on business. Some of the requisitions had gone astray, and Tom was certain that they'd gone on the black market.

He'd learned that the interpreter's name was Tony. Tony was constantly coming up with ideas on improving relations between his unit and the locals. Tom didn't know if Tony was trying to be friendly, trying to be useful, or trying to make a profit, although Tom suspected that the latter was the Italian's motive.

"How old are you, Boss?" asked Tony.

Tom wanted to tell the Eytie that it was none of his business but the Colonel had practically ordered him to stay on good terms with the interpreter.

"I'm thirty-eight," said Tom.

"A man like-a you, are you married? With bambini?" asked Tony.

"I was married," said Tom, hoping that his tone of voice would inspire the Italian to stay out of things that were none of his business. "She ran away." Tom knew that he'd sent her away when the witch's damnable potion had worn off, but the Italian didn't need to know that.

"You not in a church or nothing?" said Tony. "You can divorce the woman and marry again, yes?"

"I'm Church of England," said Tom, "not a Catholic." Actually his family had veered towards a stern Calvinism, but only his mother prayed or went to church these days.

"So she run away, you Inglesi can find another woman and marry again," said Tony. The Italian thought this was unnatural. The Church permitted you to marry only once, unless one or the other died, but these English were all Protestant heretics.

"This may be you lucky day. I know a nice widow-lady, she a little old, maybe thirty. She good looking, speak English. I think she like a nice officer, a respectable man like you. Her name is Merope, I introduce you—"

Tom felt a wave of cold fury wash all over him at the name. He came from a family that frowned on expressing their emotions, and he'd had those attitudes reinforced in the Army. Nevertheless, it was all he could do to keep control of himself and not strike the Italian. After taking just enough time to assure himself that he was in control, he turned to Tony, who sensed that something had seriously gone wrong, and said in the coldest voice he could muster "Don't you _**ever**_ say that name to me again!"

Despite Tom's low opinion of Italians in general and Sicilians in particular, Tony was no fool. How was he to know that the Inglesi's wife had been named Merope? He promptly changed the subject, telling Tom that he knew where the Italian Army used to keep some of their stores, and that they might be able to salvage some and put them to use.

Tom retired to his cot that evening badly shaken. He'd made it a point not to think about the woman who'd bewitched him while he was living in the manor house. He'd almost completely put her out of his mind here in Sicily, then the damn Eytie somehow brought up her name.

He knew that he wasn't supposed to drink on-duty, but he had a bottle stashed away where neither his brother officers nor the meat-heads would ever find it. He told himself that he'd use it tonight; he needed it.

He had a moment of alarm when he reached his quarters; for a moment, he thought he saw Merope grinning at him from the shadows. He looked again, but to his relief, she was no longer there. He opened the bottle, poured some into a tin cup, then drank.

There was a time after he'd sent her away that he remembered Merope. He found that drinking helped; he seldom dreamed about her after he'd had a dram or two. To his relief, his need for the dram lessened over the years. By the time the war started, He seldom thought of Merope, and never dreamed about her.

That evening he dreamed about her for the first time in ages. This time he was caught off-guard, he thought he awoke in his quarters, the battered bullet-pocked building his unit had requisitioned for officers' quarters, and heard someone giggling. To his shock he saw that it was Merope, still looking as young and sensual as she had before he realized what she'd done to him. She wore nothing but a shift, then stretched in the wooden chair he'd acquired for his personal use, showing her bare legs. She looked at him and grinned at him as if she'd forgotten what he'd done to her. She then patted the top of the trunk and invited him to sit next to her.

The alcohol he'd consumed and the shock of seeing her again were too much for his control. He awoke from his dream and started roundly cursing the space where he thought he'd seen the woman and he found himself unable to sleep again until just before reveille.

Colonel Drum's Aide-de-camp was waiting in front of the mess tent when he woke up the next morning.

"The Colonel wants to see you, Sir," he said. "Something about the noise from your quarters last night."


	8. So Very Disappointed

Tom Riddle's War: Part Eight. So Very Disappointed

DISCLAIMER: JK Rowling created Harry Potter and its characters; I didn't. I don't own the characters or their surroundings; JK Rowling and Warner Brothers do. I do not want, expect, or deserve financial compensation for my writing. I am writing for my own amusement and ego gratification.

Still, I retain the rights to Colonel Marco Battaglia, Hereward Granger, and Horatio Dursley.

Author's Note: This is an alternate universe Harry Potter story, set in the same universe as my Daria Ravenclaw (Harry Potter/Daria Morgendorffer) fan fiction series and years before most of the canon Daria characters were even born.

What might the consequences might have been if Tom Riddle, Senior hadn't been home at the Riddle Manor when the future Lord Voldemort came to call in July of 1943?

This story is rated M for violence, cruelty, adult situations, and coarse language. This is a war story. If you are looking for a cheerful Harry Potter fan fiction with good values and moral uplift, read no further. This is NOT that kind of tale.

Tom Riddle's War*Tom Riddle's War*Tom Riddle's War

This first bit is a fragment I forgot to post yesterday evening. It was meant to contrast Colonel Battaglia's behavior and attitudes with those of Tom Riddle Senior and the men of Riddle's command.

Inland Sicily

Despite the unceasing horrors of the battlefield, Colonel Battaglia could still occasionally track the calendar. He knew that it was now late July, and a glimpse at the Tedeschi captain's orders yesterday told him what day this must be: his wife Angela's birthday.

He'd married her after he returned from Libya, comparatively late for a man of his class, but then, he'd been a soldier. They loved each other dearly, but he was away so often: Libya, Spain, Russia, none of them places for a soldier's wife. They had four children: three daughters and a boy, and he missed all of them dearly.

The enemy now controlled most of Sicily, the Army and its German allies only holding the areas near the northern edge of Catania, the flanks of Mount Aetna, and the peninsula that led to Messina. He feared worse was to follow. Suppose the war leaped over the straight and onto Calabria and the Italian mainland? He knew that the Duce had fallen. Would Field Marshal Badoglio be able to negotiate a peace with the Allies? Would the Germans respect such an armistice? What would happen then?

He thought of his wife again. _I miss you, my love,_ _I want to come home_ , _and I pray for your safety_.

He then put those thoughts aside and went back to the business of making war on his country's enemies.

-(((O-O)))—

On to the main segment!

Chartres, Occupied France  
Very Late July, 1943

Early one morning, Tom and several other magicals were taken out of prison and loaded onto a truck. They were driven to a non-descript looking building that looked like a Muggle warehouse but was blessed with a large fireplace at one end. Tom gave a silent sigh of relief; a floo. He might be getting out of this alive.

To his irritation, Tom didn't recognize any of the other magical prisoners. He could see that he was the only one present of the four passengers who'd been on the small boat that had taken him to France several weeks ago. Had they been exchanged, or were they still at liberty? He told himself that he'd have to do better next time.

A dapper-looking Frenchman wearing Muggle civilian clothing walked over to address them. With a couple of flicks of his wand, he created a podium, set his wand down on the top of it, and pulled out some papers which were official documents or notes for a speech or a mixture of both. He then put on a pair of spectacles from another pocket, then began speaking.

"Ladies and Gentlemen,  
Witches and Wizards!

"We have arranged an exchange with the English authorities. will take you to the coast, where we will hand you over to the English Ministry and from there you can return to England."

"We hope you have learned from your adventure and will stay away from France until we are again at peace."

His short speech finished, he turned and walked away. The Aurors in Milice uniforms remained where they were, wands drawn, and watched the detainees with cold eyes.

The detained wizards and witches then formed a queue, took neatly-printed note cards, then were led to the floo terminal. From there, they floo'd away to some unknown destination.

Tom entered the fireplace, read the name on the card, then found himself in another non-descript warehouse. A guard dressed in a Milice uniform but bearing a wand gestured for him to go through the door. He exited the room and found himself standing in the parking of some official-looking building in some little French town. A breeze blew, slightly chilling him. To his relief he could smell a trace of sea air.

His journey back to England was not one of his year's high points. Most of the other wizards and witches, criminals, innocents, or clueless tourists, were more than happy to leave Occupied France and Grindelwald's creeping influence behind. Most of them were in a good mood and not only chattered with each other, but tried to draw the crew and the Aurors shepherding them into conversation.

Tom said nothing, wanting little more than the voyage to be over. In due course his boat docked at a small quay, and Tom Riddle stepped onto English soil, this time wandless.

Headmaster Dippet was waiting for him when he got off the boat.

"Tom, he said. "I am so very disappointed in you." He shook his head.

"Smuggling," he continued, his face set with disapproval. "And I had such high hopes for you."


	9. Signs and Portents

DISCLAIMER: JK Rowling created Harry Potter and its characters; I didn't. I don't own the characters or their surroundings; JK Rowling and Warner Brothers do. I do not want, expect, or deserve financial compensation for my writing. I am writing for my own amusement and ego gratification.

Still, I retain the rights to Colonel Marco Battaglia, Hereward Granger, Horatio Dursley, and now, Nahum Snape.

Also, how am I doing? A review would be nice.

Author's Note: This is an alternate universe Harry Potter story, set in the same universe as my Daria Ravenclaw (Harry Potter/Daria Morgendorffer) fan fiction series and years before most of the canon Daria characters were even born.

What might the consequences might have been if Tom Riddle, Senior hadn't been home at the Riddle Manor when the future Lord Voldemort came to call in July of 1943?

This story is rated M for violence, cruelty, adult situations, and coarse language. This is a war story. If you are looking for a cheerful Harry Potter fan fiction with good values and moral uplift, read no further. This is NOT that kind of tale.

Tom Riddle's War*Tom Riddle's War*Tom Riddle's War

Interior Sicily

By early August, the enemy now had possession of the Catanian plain and was encroaching on the town of Catania and threatening Adrano. Despite Colonel Battaglia's training and experience as an artillerist, his kampfgruppe fought as infantry, not as artillery. After heavy fighting, Adrano fell, and his unitretreated up the slopes of Mount Aetna.

There were few survivors of Colonel Battaglia's coastal defense unit left. Most had been wounded, killed, or taken prisoner. Reinforcements were few, and what few there were either came from shattered Italian Army units or occasionally stray would-be deserters given the choice of returning to duty or being shot on the spot. One or two he recognized as having deserted back when his unit had been posted to the coast. Colonel Battaglia made a show of welcoming them back, but pulled a couple of reliable officers and underofficers aside and told them to summarily execute them if they acted like they would flee again.

Colonel Battaglia hated fighting like an infantryman. He was an artillerist, and in his opinion a pretty good one—far better than the Spaniards and assorted foreigners he'd fought in Spain, and better than the Reds he'd fought in Russia. But he'd been an artillerist without artillery—until he found an abandoned gun lying in a gully not far from the narrow, twisting roadway that threaded alongside Mount Aetna.

He did some scouting and discovered a wheel rim and intact tires a few miles away. He got permission from the Tedeschi commanding his kampfgruppe to salvage and move the weapon to a new position. Using the skills he'd learned in Russia, then refined and taught others in his kampfgruppe, he hid the weapon under camouflage. If he could find shells for his piece, he'd have teeth again.

-(((O-O)))—

Tom Riddle hoped that would be Merope's one and only appearance, but the ghost dashed his hopes. She appeared several times on subsequent nights, frightening him enough drive him out of his quarters. To his chagrin, he learned that he wasn't the only one who saw her: Barnes, a Captain newly posted to his unit, could see her too.

"Interesting gal you've got in your quarters, Riddle," he said. "I'd have thought that if there were any ghosts around here, they'd all be Italians."

It was all Riddle could do to keep from swinging at him. It wouldn't have gone well if he had. Barnes was younger, senior to him, and had gone in for boxing at public school.

Matters worsened a couple of days later. Barnes had initially attempted to be friendly and civil on the occasions he dealt with Riddle; now his demeanor turned cold, formal, and he only spoke to Tom when he considered it to be in the line of duty. Tom suspected that Barnes had had words with Merope, but the little shit was too shrewd to publicly let on that he'd done so.

-(((O-O)))-

The Allies' offensive ground northwards.

By August 3rd, the Allies had taken the town of Catania and were pushing towards Adrano and other towns near the slopes of Mount Aetna.

Riddle and Barnes continued to do convoy duty, seeing to it that trucks were loaded, riding with the trucks to where supplies could be off-loaded and handed off to front-line troops, then offloading them and taking the occasional load of prisoners and broken equipment back to where it could be repaired. By now their lorries had been getting some hard use and Riddle noted to his dismay that they'd started breaking down more frequently.

-(((O-O)))—

In the meantime, Colonel Battaglia had managed to find an intact wheel-rim and tyres and after drafting enough enlisted men to help, was able to drag the canon out of the ditch and put it someplace useful. There was a narrow, twisting road over 1500 meters away that would force any motorized unit advancing on his position to slow to a dead crawl. _They'd be lined up like fat, slow partridges_ , he thought happily. He wanted direct line-of-fire, but the Tedeschi wouldn't give him one; he'd had to place his piece behind a hillside. He cursed the Tedeschi's stupidity; the German was young and inexperienced, but in the off-kilter manner his kampfgruppe was constructed, he outranked him.

He still didn't have what he really needed. The last thing he wanted was to have a tube that could do nothing except attract enemy fire if it were spotted. Then one day his hopes were answered: he got shells. He smiled. He didn't think the Yankees or the Inglesi knew that there was any enemy heavy ordinance in his sector of the battlefield. He and his men would be a nasty surprise.

-(((O-O)))—

Tom's war went on. The Allies had driven the Germans and Italians slowly towards the slopes of Mount Aetna and back towards Messina. Once they captured Messina, the island was theirs.

He'd seen less of Merope of late. He could be grateful, but he suspected that Barnes had. Not only that, the one time he went into Barnes's quarters he'd seen a small vase of wildflowers arranged in a small vase on top of some doily that Barnes had gotten from God knew where.

He saw her again one evening. This time, she had company: an older woman, clearly some sort of relative. The older ghost looked at him with loathing. She said nothing, but he looked at her and saw that she'd been knitting something. He could see the knitting needles and the yarn trailing down over the long skirt she wore into some basket. Looking him in the eye and making a nasty grin, she picked up a pair of scissors and cut the thread.

-(((O-O)))-

Augusta, Sicily  
August, 1943

This morning's convoy was bound to the front. The Bedford they were riding in was carrying high explosive shells for some artillery unit, one of Riddle's least-favorite cargoes. He had a sense of foreboding but dismissed it. _Bollocks_ , he told himself. _You've just been in this filthy country for too long, that's all._

The driver was already in the vehicle and waiting. He was unfamiliar, a man with brown hair and a large, hooked noise.

"Who are you?" said Tom. "I've never seen you before."

"Private Snape, Sir," said the driver in a Yorkshire accent. "Nahum Snape."

"What?" said Tom.

"Nahum Snape, Sir," said Snape. "Nahum, it's from the Bible."

"Right," Tom said irritably.

Granger got into the cab a few moments later.

"Why are you here, Granger?" Tom said irritably. "Dursley's supposed to be on this run."

"Dursley's with the quacks, Sir," said Granger.

"Is the bugger shirking again?" said Tom.

"No, Sir," said Granger. "Broken ankle. It's real."

 _I'll bet it is,_ thought Tom. He'd settle accounts with Dursley when he got back.

-(((O-O)))—

They set off. It was relatively safe going these days—at least until you got close to the front. Most of the rubble had been cleared, as had most of the ruined armour and vehicles, and the engineers had repaired or replaced enough of the ruined bridges so Riddle and other officers could run their convoys up to where they were needed.

Things got dicier the closer they got to the edge of battle. To be sure, there was even less risk of air attack than there'd been even a week ago. Rumor had it that the Axis had removed all their aircraft to the Italian mainland. Not long now, thought Riddle, not long until we have control of Sicily, although a part of him wondered anyone would want it. But the closer they got to the front, the more they came within range of the enemy's artillery.

The roads near this part of Mount Aetna grew narrow and twisted. Snape was new at this and slowed to a crawl, making Tom feel like centipedes were crawling up and down his backbone. He himself had done this route once. He'd been warned about snipers and managed to keep moving, but a freshly-minted clot from Britain didn't know any better and had attracted a bullet through his chest from some distant sniper.

By now, Tom had enough experience with convoy duty to know that there were things that he well and truly feared. Just after Private Snape gingerly took the Bedford around another hairpin turn, he saw that one of them had just come true: a broken-down lorry sprawled across the roadway.


	10. BOOM!

Tom Riddle's War Part Ten: Boom

DISCLAIMER: _Harry Potter_ and its characters are the creation of JK Rowling and are owned by JK Rowling, Warner Brothers, and Wizarding World. _Daria_ is the creation of Glen Eichler and is the property of MTV Viacom. I own neither franchise. I do not want, expect, or deserve financial compensation for my writing. I am writing for my own amusement and ego gratification.

Still, I do retain the rights to Colonel Marco Battaglia, Hereward Granger, Horatio Dursley, and Nahum Snape.

Author's Note: This is an alternate universe Harry Potter story, set in the same universe as my _Daria Ravenclaw_ (Harry Potter/Daria Morgendorffer) fan fiction series and years before most of the canon _Daria_ characters were even born.

What might the consequences might have been if Tom Riddle, Senior hadn't been home at the Riddle Manor when the future Lord Voldemort came to call in July of 1943?

This story is rated M for violence, cruelty, adult situations, and coarse language. This is a war story. If you are looking for a cheerful Harry Potter fan fiction with good values and moral uplift, read no further. This is NOT that kind of tale.

Tom Riddle's War*Tom Riddle's War*Tom Riddle's War

Boom

Colonel Battaglia knew about the lorry. The lorry had broken down when a previous convoy had rumbled through in the dark. Fortunately for the convoy, the lorry had been the next-to-last vehicle in the procession and the last one had carefully inched its way around it before driving away. It was now early afternoon and the Inglesi still hadn't moved it out of the way, although their reasons for not doing so were not surprising: some sniping led them to believe that lingering near the abandoned lorry was foolish in the extreme. He wanted the lorry to remain there as a traffic bottleneck, something that would slow enemy convoys down to a crawl so that he could destroy them. Later the next morning, it looked like his intuition would pay off; a new enemy convoy rounded the curve then came to a halt facing the broken-down vehicle.

-(((O-O)))—

Tom Riddle was horrified by the sight of the broken-down lorry. "STOP!" he shouted. Private Snape stomped on the brake pedal, bringing the Bedford to a halt ten feet from the derelict.

"OUT!" he said to Granger. Granger got out of the cab. So did he.

"WHAT is this bloody thing doing in the MIDDLE of the road and WHY is this thing still HERE?!" he said, seething with a fear-fueled rage.

"I don't know, Sir," said Granger.

Tom was frightened. He was certain he was within the enemy's artillery range, and probably within mortar range as well.

"Granger!" he shouted, pointing at the abandoned Bedford. "Get in the cab and see if you can get that bloody thing going!"

Granger walked over, got in the cab, and pressed the starter button. The motor turned over. _Good_ , he thought. He looked at the gauges: the battery worked, and there was plenty of petrol. He'd put it into gear, then move it to one side. He put it into gear and discovered that the lorry wouldn't move.

-(((O-O)))-

Colonel Battaglia had heard the rumbling of the convoy from several miles back and had sent an observer up the hillside with binoculars and a flashlight to signal its arrival at the road block. He wished he had a radio, but he didn't. For that matter, he wished he was in a better position with better ordinance, but he'd fight with what he had.

He looked at the hillside with a pair of binoculars. Sardi was a good man: cool, experienced, and would let him know when the enemy was in position.

He waited. He didn't see any movement where Sardi was hiding; the corporal was hiding. Then he saw a flashlight light click on and off one, two, three, four times. The enemy was where he wanted them.

He thought about partridges again. There was one time when several of them had clustered together fat, happy, and utterly oblivious to him as he slowly raised his shotgun, aimed, and then pulled the trigger. These English were as sleek and as stupid as the partridges.

"Put a high-explosive shell into the breach," he said to the loader. The gunner, a German the Colonel had appropriated for this duty, did so. He closed the breach.

"FIRE!" shouted Colonel Battaglia.

-(((O-O)))-

Hereward Granger got out of the cab and shook his head. He squatted down under the rear of the Bedford and studied its undercarriage. He then walked back to Riddle.

"It won't go, Sir," he said.

"I can see that!" said Tom. "Why the Hell won't it go?"

"It looks like a broken axle, Sir," said Granger. "If we want to get past this spot, we'll have to move it out of the way somehow."

"Well, we'll just shove it over the side and keep on," said Tom. It was bloody obvious. Why didn't this blockheaded son of a bricklayer see it?

"Sir," said Granger. "we're on a switchback. if we shove it off the side of the road, it will block the roadway again, and we'll be in the same fix on the way back."

"Granger," Riddle shouted, "I'm senior to you. I want that bloody thing moved!"

"Go round up some of the other drivers and we'll push it over the side. We'll even use the Bedford to give it a shove if we have to!" Tom was so engrossed in bollicking Granger that he didn't take notice of the incoming shell until it was too late.

-(((O-O)))—

Decades later, Daria Morgendorffer's younger sister Veronica heard the story of the Golden BB, the one-in-a-million projectile that defies all odds and successfully downs some high-tech, multi-million-dollar attack plane kitted out with the latest gadgets and turns it into flaming wreckage.

Colonel Battaglia's first shell wasn't a golden BB; it impacted the hillside on the far side of the roadway. The blast and flying rock shredded the bodies of Tom Riddle and Sub-Lieutenant Granger as effectively as a shell of shrapnel, blowing what was left of them just behind the rear fender of their Bedford.

The second shell had a much greater impact. It hit the lead lorry broad-side, its explosion detonating the ammunition it carried, causing an even bigger explosion that not only wrecked several of the lorries behind it, but utterly obliterated the bodies of their drivers and assistants. When the men from the war graves commission came by to search for the remains of the fallen soldiers long after the Sicilian campaign was over, they were forced to give up looking for the remains of the occupants of the lead vehicles. There simply wasn't enough of them left to bury.

Colonel Battaglia had been given eight shells. He continued shelling the convoy until he ran out of ammunition.

"What now?" said Feldwebel Shratt, the German gunner he'd borrowed.

"We get under cover," said Colonel Battaglia. "These Inglesi aren't total idiots. They'll guess what happened. They'll be firing back or they'll send attack planes."

-(((O-O)))—

Grimmauld Place, London, UK  
Fifty-Plus Years Later

Daria preferred to stay out of the Order's business; she preferred to remain a peripheral, not a principal. But that didn't mean that she wasn't curious or that she thought that knowing something about the Dark Lord's biography wasn't important. She'd been given the chance to talk to her headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, one the experts, and seized it with both hands.

"So Tom Riddle is supposed to have killed his grandparents," said Daria.

"That is what I believe," said Professor Dumbledore.

"So when did Tom Riddle make his house call?" asked Daria.

"It was July, 1943," said Professor Dumbledore.

 _July, 1943_ , thought Daria. Something wriggled in the back of Daria's mind.

"Was Tom's father there?" asked Daria.

"He wasn't," said Professor Dumbledore. "Tom Senior had joined the Muggle Army."

"And Tom Riddle Senior never come home from the war," said Daria.

"No," said Professor Dumbledore. "I'd assumed that Tom Junior caught up with him somewhere in Europe and killed him there."

Something was nagging at the back of Daria's mind, something important, something that needed attention.

"Maybe, maybe not," said Daria. "Could I get back to you later, Sir? I think I've got something."

She sat down with a pencil and paper and began sketching. Her version of the Sight was idiosyncratic. True, she was better than fair at palmistry, tea-leaf reading, shuffling tarot cards, and crystal ball gazing, but she also found that her visions for the future could come out while drawing. She let go her conscious mind, her pencil would start moving across paper, and when she came out of it, she had something to think about. After about a half an hour or so, she found that she'd drawn a triskelion with a face in the middle. For some reason she thought it might be southern European; most northern European triskelions had their legs wearing something. She knew it meant something, but announcing her discovery could wait. She set the sketch aside to discuss with some of the members of the order at dinner.

Surprisingly, it wasn't Granger who was the first to identify what she'd drawn, it was Bill Weasley.

"Sicily!" he said. "How did you think that one up, Lady Morgendorffer?" Bill had started calling her that as a tease. At first it irritated her, but she now put up with it.

"Good question," said Daria, "My version of the Sight can be a little weird at times." Something clicked in her brain as it made associations. "But I think I might know when and where the Dark Lord's father died."

"So when do you think He's Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's father died?" asked Bill.

"I think he died either in July or August, 1943. The Allied invasion of Sicily took place in July of 1943," said Daria.

"What?" said Ron. "Who invaded who?" Hermione smacked him and motioned for him to be quiet.

"The US and the British Armies invaded Sicily in July 1943 during the Second Great Muggle War," said Daria. "A lot of people got killed and wounded in that campaign. I don't remember just how many British casualties there were, but there were more than a few."

She turned to Ron and gave him what he'd called her scary smile. "Wanna bet that's where Pop Riddle bought it?" she said.

"You can, little brother," said Fred (or was it George?).

"But we won't," they chorused.

"We like our money" said Fred (Or was it George?)

"In our pockets," said George (Or was it Fred?).

"And not in Blackendorffer's," they chorused.

"So you think it's possible that Tom's father died in Sicily?" said Professor Dumbledore from the adult end of the table.

"I think it's possible," said Daria. "I think it's more than possible."

"I hadn't thought of that, Miss Morgendorffer," said Professor Dumbledore.

"Well, sir, you were preoccupied," said Daria. She shrugged. "Sometimes you have to think like a Muggle."

The End

Tom Riddle's War*Tom Riddle's War*Tom Riddle's War

Author's Note: Nothing left of this story except a cheat sheet to answer a few questions. If you liked this story, please write a review.


	11. Cheat Sheet

Tom Riddle's War Cheat Sheet

DISCLAIMER: JK Rowling created Harry Potter and its characters; I didn't. I don't own the characters or their surroundings; JK Rowling and Warner Brothers do. I don't own Daria Morgendorffer, either; she belongs to MTV Viacom. I do not want, expect, or deserve financial compensation for my writing. I am writing for my own amusement and ego gratification.

Still, I retain the rights to Colonel Marco Battaglia, Hereward Granger, Horatio Dursley, and now, Nahum Snape.

Author's Note: This is an alternate universe Harry Potter story, set in the same universe as my Daria Ravenclaw (Harry Potter/Daria Morgendorffer) fan fiction series and years before most of the canon Daria characters were even born.

Some information about some of the original characters who appeared in uniform in Tom Riddle's War:

Hereward Granger is related to Hermione Granger, but is **not** Hermione's grandfather.

Nahum Snape is related to Severus Snape's father Tobias Snape, but he is **not** Tobias Snape's father.

Horatio Dursley survived World War II and returned to Britain. He married and had two children: Vernon and Margaret (Marge). His son Vernon married Petunia Evans and has a son of his own: Dudley.

SPOILERS BELOW! DO NOT READ ON IF YOU HAVE NOT READ HARRY POTTER AND THE GOBLET OF FIRE OR SEEN THE MOVIE!l

So, some of you all are wondering why I bothered to write thirty-odd pages of mediocre fan-fiction about the death of an alternate-universe Tom Riddle Senior. Was it vanity? Was it boredom? Why not simply stay with the canon Harry Potter plot line and let the young Voldemort kill all three older Riddles at one go just like the _Harry Potter_ books and films?

Well, I wrote it because I wanted to escape the narrow bounds of canon compliance and force the plot of Daria Ravenclaw to go off in a different direction after Daria Morgendorffer (Black) realizes that she's in the fight against the Dark Lord whether she likes it or not. But I not only wanted a point of divergence, I wanted a _credible_ point of divergence. After some thought, I decided that forcing Tom Riddle Senior into the British Army would create such a point.

I also wanted to change things for young Harry Potter in this alternate universe. There likely would have been no scene at the Hangleton cemetery; Tom Riddle's corpse wouldn't be there. According to Britain's Muggle authorities, Tom Riddle Senior died in battle in Sicily in early August, 1943, his parents had preceded him in death, and he had no known living next-of-kin. His remains, assuming there were any to be found, would have been interred in one of the British military cemeteries located in Sicily. A gravestone with his name was erected with his name, birth date, death date, and perhaps a brief epitaph, one of hundreds of similar gravestones erected in such places.

It is extremely doubtful that there would have been any remains to be placed in a coffin. Even had macroscopic bone fragments been found nearby, it is quite possible that they could have been mis-identified. Sufficient quantities of high explosives can tear human bodies into microscopic and sub-microscopic fragments, making identification extremely difficult, certainly for Muggle pathologists and forensic anthropologists, and probably for their wizarding counterparts as well. Adding the effects of fifty plus years of such factors as erosion, highway use and road re-construction, and biological decay, there probably would have been nothing left of Tom Riddle Senior's body. Finding anything of his body would have been a herculean challenge for any wizard.

In the canon Harry Potter books and movies, Peter Pettigrew placed Lord Voldemort's form in the cauldron to resurrect the Dark Lord…but here there are no bones of the father available.

To quote the Tellytubbies (Another franchise which I make no claim to ow)

Uh-Oh. Uh-Oh. Uh-Oh. Uh-Oh.


End file.
